Punchline
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: The Mother of Invention hasn't shown up for a scheduled rendezvous. The Freelancers are stuck drifting in a Pelican with nothing but time to kill. Thus begins the Inaugural Project Freelancer Terrible Joke Competition.


South hisses, drawing back as her brother applies biofoam to the gash in her side. "I'm gonna fucking kill you," she says, with terrifying intensity.

North tilts his head as he finishes sealing the wound. "Hi, Gonna-fucking-kill-you. I'm North."

There's a held-breath anticipation in the Pelican as everyone waits for the fallout. Instead, South only snickers.

Wyoming perks up visibly, pulls off his helmet and grins at everyone. "Oh, good show. My turn. Knock-knock."

There are nine Freelancers aboard the Pelican, in various states of injury and exhaustion. They have been waiting two hours for their rendezvous with the Mother of Invention, which is currently out of communications range for unknown reasons. Tensions are high; two shouting matches have already waxed and waned.

And yet their sense of cooperative teamwork is overwhelming when they say, "_No_."

"Wake him up," Carolina adds, to Maine.

Maine glances over at her with a surprising air of helplessness for a supersoldier wearing a massive suit of armor. Wash is slumped against him, his helmet pressing into Maine's shoulder, his soft snores picked up by the radio.

"Maine," Carolina says, warningly, and Maine sighs and joggles his elbow until Wash snorts and straightens.

"Assholes," Wash mutters. His words are slurring. "Y'know, it's a myth that you have to keep concussion victims awake. Not actually a thing. Lemme sleep."

York, sitting on his other side, gives him an encouraging shove. "Easier to make sure you're still alive, this way." When Wash only coughs and looks at him, he says, "Y'know, I can't actually tell if you're glaring at me when you have your helmet on. You're— okay, man, all right, the middle finger's pretty evocative, message received, thanks."

"Knock-knock," Wyoming says again, hopefully.

"I think I'm okay with dying peacefully in my sleep," Wash says, already leaning back toward Maine. Connie leans over to kick him in the shins.

"No call for that," Wyoming says. "Here, I know a good one, you'll love it, but you need to start it."

Wash glances up at him. In a tone of abject misery, he says, "Okay. Fine. Knock-knock."

Wyoming beams. "Who's there?"

Wash pauses. "I, uh. I. What?"

"Who's there?"

"I don't... but it was _your—_"

"Come now, Wash, this is a pretty terrible joke. You're letting down the team."

From the back of the ship, somehow half-hidden by shadow despite the bright running lights, Florida leans forward and raises his hands. "C'mon, Reggie, that wasn't very nice. Poor kid's all rattled. It's a bit mean-spirited, don't you think?" He claps, communicating a gleeful grin with impressive skill given that he's wearing a blood-spattered helmet. "But it's a great idea for all of us to tell jokes! What a wonderful team-building exercise."

"I got one," South says. "You ever hear the one about the guy with the world's biggest_—"_

"_Clean_ jokes," Florida says. "Just some good old-fashioned fun!"

"Peacefully," Wash says, with an air of wistfulness, "in my sleep."

"You and me both," South mutters.

Florida chortles. "No, listen, you'll all love this one. Let me make sure I'm telling it right." He thinks for a moment, then giggles. "Okay, here goes nothing. There once was this boy named Timmy who, through a freak accident, had his head severed."

"Jesus Christ," York says. "I think I wanna hear the one about the guy with the world's biggest_—_"

Florida waves a hand. "Oh, but don't you worry! His parents were mad scientists, which worked out great for little Timmy. They managed to keep him alive as just a severed head."

"What," South says.

"Just as a severed head! Modern medicine, my goodness. So Timmy could go to school and make friends and carry on conversations, but he always wished he could run and play like the other kids."

"I," South says, and adds, "What." Connie pats her leg, reassuringly.

"But on his tenth birthday, his parents had a surprise! In addition to being mad scientists, you see, they were also mad _engineers_. And they'd managed to create an entirely functional robot body for little Timmy! He was so thrilled when he got the present that he immediately asked if he could try it on and go play with his friends in the park across the street."

York nudges South with his shoulder. "Y'know that horrible sense of foreboding when you know a terrible monster's just around the corner waiting for you with a giant laser gun? I get that, only with puns."

Undeterred, Florida says, "So Timmy took his first steps, cautiously at first, and then with great joy. He stumbled. He walked. He ran. He sprinted. And he followed his friends out to cross the street... where he was promptly struck by a car and killed instantly. The moral of the story being: quit while you're a head."

Silence greets this denouement.

York breaks it first. "So this thing's got an airlock, right? If I were to just... open it, we'd all get sucked out into space and die pretty quick?"

"That's right," Carolina says, blandly.

"Just curious. Something to keep in mind."

"I hate you," South tells Florida. "I know I say that a lot, but understand that I really, really mean it."

"He's got worse jokes," Connie says. "Don't get him started." She kicks Wash in the shins again, and he jolts awake with a grunt.

"What fun," Florida says, clapping. "Who's next?"

"I'll go," York says. South actually pulls off her helmet to give him an appropriately pathetic look of betrayal. "What? Just because I hate bad jokes doesn't mean I don't know any. I'm a sucker for punishment."

"Sure," South says. "Just ask Carolina."

"South," Carolina says, warningly.

South smirks over at Connie. "Notice she didn't deny it?"

"_Any_way," York says, "this is one about Master Chief. So he's out doing his heroic thing and there's a parade in his honor and whatever_—_"

"You're such a compelling storyteller," North says. "Really brings the setting to life."

"Thank you. And he's used to being out in the field, so like, getting the royal treatment is kind of weirding him out. One day he's being driven around by a lieutenant, just sort of schmoozing at parties at this shitty old colony or whatever. And he leans up and is like_—_" York clears his throat, puts on a deep voice. "'Hey man, mind if I drive for a bit?' and the guy's like, 'Uh I guess so' because y'know, Master Chief, right? So they swap places and Master Chief is having so much fun he starts going a bit too fast down the road, all, 'Woooooo I'm a decorated war hero it's awesome!'"

"I like the voices," North says.

"Thank you. So inevitably, much to the lieutenant's chagrin, the two of them get pulled over by a cop. The cop goes to give them a ticket, then pauses when he sees who's behind the wheel. 'Hang on a second,' he says, and calls up his dispatcher. 'We can't give this guy a ticket.' And the dispatcher's all, 'Well, why not? Who is he?' And the cop says, 'Man, I don't know who he is, but Master Chief's his chauffeur.'"

Carolina snorts. "Okay, that wasn't bad."

Florida has his arms crossed. "There may have been some defamation of character there, York. Master Chief's a good man."

Wyoming leans over to him. "You expect us to believe you've met?"

"I don't expect you to believe it, no." Florida waves a hand. "Anyway, well done. Any other takers?"

"Fine," South says. She elbows York in the ribs (badly bruised in today's fighting; he doubles over with a gasp). "This is revenge for you turning on me, asshole. I thought we were supposed to gang up on these sick fucks and their terrible puns together."

"Clean jokes, South," North says.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. So this priest dude's out playing golf with his buddy_—_"

Wash finally speaks up again, his voice wobbly. "What the fuck is golf?"

South stares at him. "Where'd you grow up, the asscrack of nowhere? They don't have golf in the asscrack of nowhere?"

"It's really boring," York says. "Rich people play it a lot where I'm from. Hitting a ball with a stick into a hole. There's variants with, like, explosive jetpack balls, but apparently that's less _noble_ and _interesting_ and _traditional _and _safe.._."

"South played golf in high school," North says. "Almost went pro."

York freezes, looking from one twin to the other. "Wait, seriously? I can never tell if you're joking about these things."

"So this priest dude," South repeats, with emphasis, "is out playing golf with his buddy. And this friend's, like, a childhood friend, so he's kinda grown up a bit different to this priest guy. He's a huge asshole, and every time he misses a shot he's like, 'Fucking cockwaffle piss-stain dickbiscuit, I missed!'"

"Nice clean joke," York says.

"Thanks. So the priest's getting more and more uncomfortable with the language, and finally he goes, 'Look, Dave, you've got to stop swearing or God will strike you down!' And right on cue, thunder rumbles in the distance. Dave's like, 'Fuck off, man, let's play some motherfucking golf!'"

"I think I'd like golf," Wash says, philosophically. He's starting to slump again, so Maine shores him up against his shoulder.

"So they make their way through the course, Dave cursing up a storm, the priest looking nervously at the darkening sky. It's like, Dave misses a shot, goes 'Fuck, I missed!' and the priest just flinches every time. And finally they're at the last hole, and Dave misses an easy putt. 'Goddamnit it, _fuck fuck FUCK_,' he says, and the skies finally open up and a massive lightning bolt comes down from the heavens... and strikes the priest dead instead of Dave. From the skies, there's this big booming voice of God, and it says, 'Mother_fucker_, I missed!'"

She gets a few snorts of laughter from that one, including a double thumbs-up from Florida, and settles back, crossing her arms and smirking at York's pained expression.

"I know that one," North says. "Learned it at that big golf tournament when we were fifteen, right?"

York groans. "Would someone _please_ tell me if you're being serious?"

"Hey, Niner!" South leans past him to shout into the cockpit. "You got any jokes?"

"Yeah, I got jokes," she says. "You guys ever hear the one about the nine Freelancers and their incredibly clever and talented and gorgeous pilot who died horribly when their fucking ride never showed up to the rendezvous point?"

"Good joke," Connie says.

"Thanks," says 479er. "Here's another. See, there's this lady who's been traveling all day and she just wants to go home, so she calls a taxi. Taxi driver comes to pick her up, really friendly, helps her load up her luggage, then starts them on their way. At one point, our traveler notices that he's missed a pretty obvious shortcut, so she leans forward to tap him on the shoulder and goes, 'Excuse me...' but before she can say anything, he screams and starts swerving all over the road. When he finally gets his car under control he pulls over and apologizes. 'What happened?' she says. He wipes sweat from his forehead and goes, 'I'm so sorry, but I've only been driving taxis for a week. Before that, I drove a hearse!'"

Amid the chuckles, Wyoming says, "Very amusing, my dear, but also a little on-the-nose, don't you think?"

"Hey now," Florida says. "None of that pessimistic talk here!"

"Blame Maine," 479er says. "He's the one who told me the joke."

In unison, everyone turns to look at Maine. He shrugs.

South is delighted. "God, you've gotta tell us a joke, Maine. Don't leave us hanging."

Maine sighs, clears his throat, and rasps, "Two guys walk into a bar. The third one ducks."

"Har-har," says York.

"Yeah, that sucked," says South.

Maine shrugs, coincidentally jostling Wash awake again. "You asked."

"Hey," says 479er, "I got comms! MoI's inbound. They were fighting off patrols and had to go radio silent to sneak around them."

"What did I tell you?" Florida says, slapping Wyoming so hard on the shoulder that he nearly falls over. "Great timing, huh?"

"Thank fuck," South says. "I was plotting everybody's murders. Nobody would convict me."

Carolina looks up, thoughtfully. "How long until we rendezvous?"

"Five minutes."

"Perfect," Carolina says, a grin in her voice. "My turn. This one's a little involved, so you'll need to listen close to catch it all."

"Boss-lady's got a sense of humor," South says. "Who knew?"

North laughs. "You don't pay very close attention, do you?"

"So. There's this girl named Laura who lives in this little town called Serrinine."

"Aw, this isn't autobiographical?" York says. "I'm crushed."

Ignoring him, Carolina leans forward. "And Serrinine is known for exporting textiles, electronics, and weaponry to colonies all across the galaxy. Laura's own father, Stefan, is a well-known negotiator for the textiles market. He's also very politically minded. So when Laura's in high school and starts getting a crush on Penny, the cute girl in her class, he does a little background check and finds out that her mom's the head of the electronics industry."

"Jesus Christ," South says. "Am I gonna need to take notes?"

"It's a complicated joke," Carolina says. "You have to pay close attention to get the payoff. So he's very encouraging toward this match, and Laura's fine with it because she quite likes Penny, but also because she has political ambitions herself and dreams of one day cornering the weapons market as well, which is much easier to accomplish with more power in one's corner."

"My head hurts," Wash says. "Not s'posed to make a concussion victim listen to convoluted jokes, either."

Carolina glances over at him. "There's an important lesson in the story, if you listen carefully. So Laura tells Penny all about her ambitions, and Penny's on board, but the problem is that Penny isn't particularly ambitious at all. All she wants to do is play Grifball. But she has a crush on Laura, so she'll go along with it. Their school is having a dance, so Penny suggests they go together."

"They had school dances where you grew up?" York asks, incredulously.

Carolina nudges him with her elbow, with considerably less force than South used. "Not the point, York. Listen up. Before they go to the dance, they decide to pick up some high-end surveillance equipment so they can find out more about the political movers and shakers at the dance. Unfortunately, there's a big sale at the spy shop, and everyone with suspicions who can't afford private investigators is there, which is a pretty substantial fraction of the town of Serrinine. Laura shrugs and says, 'You know what, I like you, I'll do this for you,' and goes and stands in the spy shop line. Finally, she gets a few electronic bugs for each of them, and they divvy them up and continue on their way to the dance."

"I'm beginning to wonder if this isn't a little autobiographical after all," Wyoming says.

Connie shrugs. "Sounds like a typical high school experience to me."

"But on the way there, they realize they don't have any good means of communication with each other. What if they're separated on the dance floor? So they decide to stop at a military supply store and pick up radios. Unfortunately, the military supply store is packed with people as well, because they're selling little models of various famous soldiers and a lot of kids have begged their parents to buy them. Laura shrugs and says, 'You know what, I like you, I'll do this for you,' and goes and stands in the supply store line. Eventually, she gets a radio for each of them, and they finally make it to the dance."

"Finally," South groans. "How long is this fucking joke?"

"At the dance, they finally relax a little. Penny is relieved when Laura doesn't immediately get into all the spy equipment. Instead, they just dance and enjoy themselves. After a particularly energetic dance, Penny grins and says, 'I could go for a glass of punch. But I bet there'll be a huge lineup because there are so many people here.' Laura shrugs and says, 'You know what, I like you, I'll do this for you.' And she goes to get punch, all ready to wait for a long while in the lineup. But there is no punch line."

It takes a moment for that to sink in.

"I hate you," South says. "I hate me. I hate everybody."

"I feel so empty," Connie says. "Everything is terrible."

"Cruel and unusual," Wash mutters.

York is staring at Carolina. "I feel like I don't even know you anymore."

Carolina beams, getting to her feet and strolling up to the co-pilot's chair. "Good mission, everyone. Debrief at 0800 tomorrow morning."

When everyone's settled in, amid the more animated chatter, Wyoming grins and leans over to elbow Florida. "Some hope for them yet, eh?"


End file.
